| When I’m dead and gone
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| I bet you I’m the realist nigga in that cemetery
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| Rather rap off a obituary, get you buried
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| Smoke the blunts that’s of preliminary, weed is hairy
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| Fucking on a bitch you marry, look like Jimmy Carey
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| Masked up for that fast buck, guess who
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| The human cesspool, skydive in a wetsuit
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| Dance with my demons with two left shoes
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| The vehicle resemble pet food (faggot, pussy)
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| I’m Jesse James in some J’s and a 'Lo bucket
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| The flow I mustered keep hoes running
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| Mac 1−0 busting, sound like war drumming
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| Foes ducking, mugging, say I’m bugging
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| Controlled substance, roll with the punches
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| I’m lunching in Beelzebub’s bathtub
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| Mad drugs, sold the Adderall to the math club
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| Get dough, sold the Ecstasy to the freak hoes
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| Then I hit the park and lost it all in a cee-lo
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| I said fuck it, stuck the game up after
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| About my collections like a pastor, my mental is NASA
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| Eighth letter global nigga, ain’t nothing after
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| You say this is your page, faggot I’m burning the chapter
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| You know my eyes wide shut for whatever going on around me
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| Brain kinda cloudy, smoked out, feeling rowdy
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| Ready to wet the party up and whoever in that motherfucker
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| Word to mother, there won’t be another, nah
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| Word to mother, there won’t be another
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| Ready to wet the party up and whoever in that motherfucker
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| Word to mother, there won’t be another, nah
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| Word to mother, there won’t be another |